


The Ludicrous and Many Disasters of Mister A. Z. Fell, Houseplant

by SoulJelly



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's plants have their own character arc, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Plants, Protective!Crowley, Shapeshifting, aziraphale is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 22:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20460764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulJelly/pseuds/SoulJelly
Summary: Aziraphale tries to change his corporation and ends up as a houseplant. Crowley whisks him away to be potted, cared for, and screamed at properly at his flat. Aziraphale makes some unexpected new friends.Written for theGood Omens Kink Meme.





	The Ludicrous and Many Disasters of Mister A. Z. Fell, Houseplant

** curiosity**

/kjʊərɪˈɒsɪti/

  1. a strong desire to know or learn something.

_"filled with curiosity, he tried something new."  
  
_

This odd little compulsion, curiosity, is considered by most to be a rather… unangelic trait.

It will never catch on, the angels said, when God first introduced the concept. Things are fine the way they are. Poking your nose in, that’s really more of a demon thing. Look what happened to the last person who asked Questions. Of course, those angels rather liked _The Sound of Music_ and had never known the satisfaction of setting little bits of paper on fire in science class, so they didn’t really know what they were missing. When you’re an immortal being there’s no rush for curiosity’s sake. You expect that you’ll get around to it all eventually.

Hand in hand with curiosity are various other emotions. Silliness. Boredom. Frustration. (Deep, intense longing of the _does he love me back?_ variety.) Generally, these are considered to be work of One Particular Side rather than the Other. Hell is particularly proud of a potent mix of curiosity and boredom that culminated in the invention of reality television.[1]

([1] Or at least, they were, until they discovered that humans had already come up with the idea some years prior.)

So curiosity Happened and humans just sort of… got caught up in the whole thing, as humans are wont to do. Before too long, they were doing a bang-up job of things all by themselves and after a while, Hell moved onto the next big thing, leaving humans to it.

Which brings us to Aziraphale, the Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and Former Owner of a Sword Which Flamed Like Anything.

Since averting the End of Days, Aziraphale was free to enjoy humanity without inhibition. That’s not to say he hadn’t been doing so for the last six thousand years, but now he didn’t have to feel any obligatory guilt about it. The more time Aziraphale enjoyed walking amongst humans, the more humanity’s traits rubbed off on him. When one has been present on Earth for that long, one can only dine at the Ritz so many times, read so many books and what have you. There was truth to the fears of Heaven and Hell that their respective – former - agents on Earth had _gone native_.

Aziraphale sat in his bookshop on a rainy afternoon in Soho and decided to transform his corporation into something different, just because. He was curious about it, and what was the harm in that?

“Now, how does Crowley do it…” he muttered to himself. He would normally ask the demon in question, but Crowley had attended a gig for some band or other that Aziraphale hadn’t heard of and would be sleeping off the ensuring hangover for a couple of days. It stands to reason that if Crowley had been present at all none of this would have happened, but that would not serve our story well and besides, the ashes of Agnes Nutter’s second book and any warnings therein were long scattered to the winds.

Aziraphale concentrated. He breathed deep and slipped into a state of heightened awareness of his physical form. The familiar limbs of his corporation, the way his thighs perched on the edge of his desk. A snake would be nice, he thought. Nice white serpent. He could share Crowley’s vivarium. A smile spread across Aziraphale’s face at the thought of them entwined, dozing behind sun-warmed glass. Surrounded by leaves and branches, their shadows making dappled patterns of their skin.

He must acquire more plants, Aziraphale thought absently. Perhaps he should surprise Crowley with a plant when he woke up. One could never have too many, after all. Something moderately sized, leafy and green. Something that would be lovely in bloom around this time of year.

Aziraphale’s mind ran away with itself, thinking about plants and things. When it returned, it realised with a start that there had been some changes to Aziraphale’s corporation which it had mostly certainly not been consulted on.

Most notably, where the arms and legs had been there were now some rather lovely leaves, and a soft unfurling of red petals. A damp earthy smell, which was not altogether unpleasant.

Where a person-shaped angelic being had been sitting, there was a flowerpot – tartan-patterned, naturally - full of begonias. The flower wriggled, waving an experimental stem.

_Oh_, thought Aziraphale. _Sh… Sugar_.

It’s one thing to absent-mindedly transform oneself into a houseplant, and quite another to turn oneself back.  
  
Imagine building something out of Lego bricks. You’ve got a general idea of what you’re going for, but for the most part you’ve been making it up as you go along, without following any instructions. So much so that, when you pull your masterpiece apart, you can’t quite remember how to put it back together in the exact same way.  
  
Aziraphale hadn’t changed his corporation since he got it (besides a certain, recent Effort) and he certainly didn’t remember the instructions. [2]

([2] Any allusions to Lego would also be rather lost on him.)

  
  
_Probably best to wait,_ he thought. He wiggled his leaves about, curled his roots tightly into the soil, and made himself comfortable. _Crowley will come back, eventually._ _Besides,_ he told himself, cheerfully, _a brief dalliance in the life of another of God’s creatures can only be an enlightening experience. I _do_ like begonias._ This cheerfulness was very much a front for his own reassurance. Aziraphale didn’t want to think too hard about the fact that he couldn’t seem to change at all, even if he wanted to. His new corporation's form just wasn't able to figure that out yet.  
  
By the fifth day, Aziraphale was beginning to wilt. He felt dried out, limp, his leaves sagging under his own weight. Aziraphale had stared at the same patch of shop wall for a while. He’d recited some of his favourite poems in his head and counted every book he could see. In the grand scheme of things a few days was a blink of an eye to angel but this was a long time to spend without movement, without reading a book or even just having a nice cup of tea. He was beginning to feel ever so slightly upset.  
  
Eventually, a red and black blur appeared in the frosted glass of the shop door. Azirapale’s heart gave a little leap (or at least, it would have were that currently possible). With a snap of his fingers, Crowley unlocked the shop door and strolled in.  
  
“Morning, Angel,” he called into the shop. “You in the back? Bloody brilliant night that was. Look, I brought croissants!”  
  
_I’m here,_ Aziraphale thought loudly in Crowley’s direction. He wiggled a little in his pot, but Crowley was already wandering through the back, calling his name.  
  
“Aziraphale?”  
  
Aziraphale waited helplessly, watching the demon’s mounting confusion. Crowley pulled out his phone and pressed a button. On the desk beside the plant pot, Aziraphale’s mobile phone rang out in the quiet of the shop. Crowley picked it up, turned it off and frowned at the screen before pocketing it.  
  
“Where have you gone, you idiot?” Crowley asked aloud.  
  
_Here, for Heaven’s sake!_ Aziraphale screamed, but there was no way to communicate that of course. He watched as Crowley set the croissants on the desk and folded his arms in thought. It was then that he spotted the plant.  
  
“Oh, hello,” said Crowley. “What have we got here?” He ran a finger over Aziraphale’s leaves. Aziraphale shuddered. Crowley cupped the pot in his hands and lifted it to his face, clicking his tongue in annoyance as he examined the leaves. “Look at the state of you,” he said. “Going and wilting like that, looking all messy in Aziraphale’s bookshop.” Crowley’s features twisted into a scowl. “That’s not on, do you hear? Absolutely unacceptable behaviour, nice little plant like you.”  
  
Aziraphale tried to ignore the pleasant twinge he felt at being called a ‘nice little plant’ by Crowley, but didn’t quite manage it. He felt himself set down on the desk again, heard Crowley rummaging through the desk drawers and the scratch of pen on paper as he wrote some kind of note. Then he picked up the croissants and Aziraphale and left the bookshop.  
  
“You can come with me,” he told Aziraphale, “While I look for Aziraphale.”  
  
He could have sworn the begonias let out a little groan, if such a thing were possible. The sort of groan that said, _this is going to be a rather trying day, isn’t it._  
  
But it wasn’t (possible, that is), so instead Crowley tucked the begonias into the passenger seat of the Bentley and screeched out into central London traffic. Crowley drove even more recklessly when he didn’t think Aziraphale was around.

By the end of the trip his leaves were tinged a rather sickly shade of green.

  
\--

  
  
It was odd to be with Crowley in the flat when Crowley thought he was alone. Aziraphale felt a little guilty, like he was intruding on something private, even though Crowley did nothing but hum songs under his breath and rearrange a few things absently on his countertop. He shrugged out of his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and pocketed his sunglasses.  
  
“Right,” Crowley spoke aloud. “I’ve got an empty bookshop, a missing angel and one plant in a tartan-patterned pot.”

He paced, biting his bottom lip as he did so. He made calls: Anathema (who then called on the Them and reported that, no, they hadn’t seen Aziraphale at all recently), Shadwell, various London booksellers, even the manager of the Ritz on a last desperate whim. By the end of this long series of calls, Crowley was visibly beginning to worry.  
  
“I’m sorry, sir, we haven’t seen Mr. Fell and he hasn't made any reservations. However there’s an opening for two at your usual table tomorrow evening and-“  
  
“I don’t want to think about bloody tomorrow evening right now!” snapped Crowley and hung up. The one thing Crowley missed about landline phones was being able to angrily slam down the receiver, which was probably the only reason he kept one with his ansaphone. Hanging up on mobile just didn’t have the same impact.  
  
“Okay,” said Crowley, forcing himself to breathe deep. “Okay. I was only gone for a few days. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation. He's probably just gone to Paris for crepes and forgot to leave a note.”  
  
Aziraphale wilted even further, sad and helpless. It was painful to see Crowley like this, visibly distraught over his missing angel, particularly when Aziraphile was right in front of him and couldn’t even communicate the fact. Before the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, disappearing for days, decades, or even a century or two wasn't unheard of. Crowley had napped through the entire nineteenth century after all. Since their near miss, though, they had spent barely any time apart. Not without texts or notes. [3] Just in case their Former Sides decided to make an appearance.

([3] It was around this time that Crowley insisted Aziraphale own a mobile phone, just in case. Aziraphale kept it reluctantly about his person, until the day he discovered the 'camera' function at the same time Crowley happened to be dozing in his bookshop. He hadn't seemed to mind so much about owning it after that.)

In short, Crowley was correct to be worried.

Crowley paced a little longer, then spun on a heel and sunk into a nearby chair. He put his head in his hands, gripping his hair, fingertips white. Aziraphale swayed a little, strained to make some change to his corporation but his thoughts were too scattered and he had no idea how to even properly navigate a plant’s… body, for lack of a better word. There was truth to the saying 'form follows function'. With each passing day, Aziraphale realised he had begun to feel more and more... plant-ish. He kept getting intrusive thoughts about rain, and organic fertiliser, and day-dreamy aspirations of being on display at the Chelsea Flower Show.

No wonder Crowley didn't like to spend too long as a serpent. One rather forgot how to be any other way.

Crowley took deep, ragged breaths and let out a groan of frustration.

“They’ve bloody got him!” he groaned. “All that work to stop the apocalypse and they go and damn well steal Aziraphale. Fuck!” Crowley glared up at the ceiling and then, as an afterthought, down at the floor. In fact he glared at both with equal attention for a minute or so, because a terrible idea had occurred to him that _they_ could mean Heaven, but… it could also mean Hell. Taking Aziraphale to get back at Crowley was the sort of demonic thing that lot would do.  
  
“How dare you!” Crowley yelled in the empty silence of the flat. “_If_ you’ve done something, how dare you! I’ll find him, and you’ll all pay. _All of you_!”  
  
Every plant in the room trembled, but this time with the giddy apprehension of watching someone else get into trouble, and knowing with a guilty sort of relief that it wasn’t you for once.  
  
_Oh no_, thought Aziraphale. _The dear boy is going to get himself into a pickle. Storming Heaven and Hell looking for me, that’s going to cause a mess._  
  
Crowley flung himself to his feet, grabbed his jacket and prepared to take action.  
  
His phone rang.  
  
“What?” he snapped. Then, “Ah, Book Girl. Anathema. Did you hear something?”  
  
Aziraphale strained to hear her on the other side of the phone, but got the gist well enough. They were on the way, she said, and please keep calm, they could work this out together. Crowley’s body twitched with visibly restrained tension.  
  
“Yes, he’s disappeared for a while before,” Crowley was saying briskly into the phone. “I didn’t see him for half of the sixteenth century. He got obsessed with collecting snuffboxes. Found him fighting Jean Nicot over a particularly nice one shaped like—right, right, never mind. Yes, I’ll wait.”  
  
Anathema said something. Crowley scowled.  
  
“Keep calm is easy for you to say. You haven’t lost your--“ he stuttered, blushed a little - Aziraphale, not privy to this before, swayed in delight – and said a rough goodbye before hanging up.  
  
Crowley wrung his hands, staring down at them as though hoping they would imbue him with a sense of purpose. He gazed about the room and landed on Aziraphale, who sat on the windowsill.  
  
“There’s something I can do,” he said. “Come here, you.”  
  
The plants around him rustled. There was a general sense of concern cast in Aziraphale’s general direction, and a pitying sentiment of _well, nice knowing you_.  
  
Crowley crouched in front of Aziraphale, tracing his finger over the bud of a begonia. Aziraphale felt a little thrilling sort of way that plants had no right to feel. _Though, actually, they do have reproductive organs_, he supposed. _And who am I to judge—_  
  
He was distracted by the feeling of Crowley’s careful hands turning over his leaves, pressing slender fingers into his soil, brushing the topmost knot of roots. Aziraphale’s petals turned a deeper shade of red.  
  
“Strange thing,” Crowley said, dangerously gentle, “That Aziraphale disappears and you show up in exactly the same kind of awful plant pot he would choose.”  
  
_That’s because it’s me, you— _Aziraphale protested. He wanted to wave a fist but of course he didn’t have one, and his frustration, with nowhere productive to go, simply ebbed back into his soil. _Please, Crowley, dear,_ he thought desperately. _Put two and two together._  
  
But who could, without thinking along a very specific set of lines?  
  
Crowley reached for a nearby water mister. A soft hissing sound of spray and, _oh,_ thought Aziraphale, water clinging to his poor dehydrated leaves, _how lovely_. He felt better immediately, hadn’t realised that days without watering had contributed greatly to how miserable he was feeling. Crowley poured a little water directly into the soil and Aziraphale soaked it in, uncurling and feeling much better than he had been previously. The fact that he was still plant-shaped, notwithstanding.  
  
“Pot’s a bit small,” murmured Crowley.  
  
_How rude_, said Aziraphale. He supposed he wouldn’t say no to a little more room though. _Just so long as you don’t put me in something ghastly-looking. _He had seen enough of Crowley’s ostentatious black marble plant pots and they were just not his look, thank you very much.  
  
Crowley rummaged in a cupboard and, absorbed in his work, carefully lifted Aziraphale into a modest clay brown thing, rounded at the bottom with neat abstract patterns etched into its surface. Aziraphale waved an approving leaf. He had rather liked the tartan, but if this put Crowley’s mind off his worry, he would allow it.  
  
“Now,” Crowley said at last, patting the soil in place and shifting Aziraphale carefully back to the windowsill. “You’re going to be a good plant, aren’t you?” He quirked a disapproving eyebrow at the speckles on Aziraphale’s leaves (one good misting and repotting wasn’t going to get him back in shape overnight, he thought defensively) and the lack of perfection seemed to spark Crowley’s rage again.  
  
“Grow better this time!” he snarled. “Do you hear me? DO NOT WILT AGAIN IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU!”  
  
_Well!_ thought Aziraphale.  
  
If plants could bristle, Aziraphale would have done so at that moment. As it was, he exuded such an air of righteous indignation (as much as it is possible for a plant to do so, and you would be surprised) that Crowley did a double-take.  
  
He stared at the Offending Houseplant (That Was, Unbeknownst To Him, His Own Missing Angel) and the Offending Houseplant Aziraphale stared back. Or rather, existed back defiantly in his face.

Crowley narrowed his eyes suspiciously for a long moment.

Then he brushed his hands on his jeans and heaved a sigh. He checked the time, paced some more, opened a rather lovely looking bottle of scotch and took a long drink (Aziraphale looked on jealously). Crowley then proceeded to more or less repeat this cycle of actions until Anathema and the others arrived.  
  
At the sound of the doorbell he leapt up, jammed his phone into his pocket and stormed out of the door.  
  
“Behave while I’m gone!” he yelled at his plants.  
  
The door slammed, leaving Aziraphale alone.  
  
Well. Not quite.

  
  
\--

  
  
_So…._ said Aziraphale. _Nice place you’ve got here._  
  
The spider plant next to him regarded him coolly. It was turned towards the window, stoic, and did not reply.  
  
Aziraphale was thinking that he hadn’t eaten in a while and that he was rather peckish. This might sound strange until you realise that peckishness was now such a fundamental part of Aziraphale's being that it had followed him without a second thought into this new form. He wondered what would happen if someone were to pour hot chocolate into his soil. Oh, he missed hot chocolate. And those little shortbread biscuits with extra sugar dusted on top. There was still half a box left at the bookshop, ones that Crowley had brought as a Congratulations To Us For Saving The World present.  
  
Aziraphale’s thoughts meandered gloomily in a particular direction regarding a certain demon. If he couldn’t fix this, there would be no more biscuits at the bookshop. No more Ritz. No more feeding the ducks or drives in the Bentley. Aziraphale would have to sit here, watching Crowley grieve for him even though he hadn’t gone anywhere. There would be no more Aziraphale&Crowley, no more late nights, no more inside jokes. No more holding hands in the park.  
  
And things, after the Not-Apocalypse, had been going so well…  
  
Aziraphale’s flowers sunk to the lip of his plant pot. So despondent was he had begun to wilt again. The spider plant looked rather alarmed. It sent a wave of something in Aziraphale’s direction. A kind of polite enquiry, like you might approach a stranger and inform them they had toilet paper stuck to their shoe.  
  
_I daresay I’m not all right at all,_ Aziraphale pouted. _Thank you very much._  
  
The spider plant dipped a leaf in sympathy. Aziraphale forgave its earlier aloofness; it must have had quite an upheaval, sharing its windowsill space with a stranger without any warning. The spider plant turned a little, leaning its leaves forward, stretching further into the light.  
  
_You should eat something,_ it seemed to say.  
  
Aziraphale followed suit and with a little concentration turned himself up into the sun. The photosynthesis did make him feel better. It was also pleasantly warm, especially as the clouds dispersed throughout the afternoon. Aziraphale took the time to practice moving his body, with the limited movements that he could. The deliberate turn of this leaf, or that stem, or that petal. There was a certain knack to it, but he was much better at it now than a couple of days ago.  
  
_Watch those spots,_ the spider plant said, presently. _Don’t want to end up screamed at, or worse._ They weren’t so much words, really, as a certain feeling wafted from one plant over to the other. Aziraphale was getting the hang of that, too, and sent back a reply.  
  
_He’s not so bad, really,_ said Aziraphale. _He’s just a little… neurotic. Flowers sort of remind him of the Garden. He wants it to be perfect._ The begonias darkened in embarrassment. His personal theory on Crowley’s plant-care neurosis wasn’t something he’d voiced to anyone else before, and he thought he probably oughtn’t to have shared it with a stranger. But these plants lived with Crowley, he reasoned. They must have seen… all manner of things.  
  
Aziraphale’s thoughts took a sudden sharp turn. He felt very warm in a way that had nothing to do with sunlight.[4]

([4] And everything to do with a rather lovely mental image of Crowley wandering about his flat, freshly-showered, just a towel slung about his skinny hips. From there the thoughts took a banking left turn in the direction of 'Crowley smiling and singing to himself', 'Crowley probably attempting to cook something' and 'Crowley taking care of his plants with those delightfully dexterous fingers of his.' After this the road map of thoughts got rather muddled and Aziraphale felt something akin to experiencing three roundabouts in rapid succession in the Bentley.)

  
  
He waved a leaf. _Anyway,_ he said, briskly. _I’m not supposed to be here. There’s been a terrible mistake. I was quite an old silly, really, you see I accidentally—_  
  
The other plants around the flat craned in, listening to Aziraphale’s tale. Had this been the residence of any ordinary human they might not have believed him. As it was, these plants had seen many strange things and were no longer remotely phased. An angel accidentally transforming into a pot of begonias was pretty much a normal Tuesday, really. Besides, it gave them all something to think about that wasn’t the constant, impending dread of being shredded.  
  
_\-- And that’s that,_ Aziraphale finished.  
  
_Don’t see what we can do._ A yukka plant in the corner bristled. A Kentia palm tree swatted it lightly with a certain air of fond admonishment. _We’ll do what we can,_ it offered.  
  
Aziraphale wriggled happily from the tips of his leaves to his roots. They were all quite darling creatures, really. For the first time in days he felt hopeful.  
  
Speaking of hope... he also dearly hoped that Crowley wasn’t doing anything stupid.

  
  
\--

  
  
Anathema gripped her seat for dear life, and Newt gripped her. In the back, the Them and Dog grinned like they were on a rollercoaster, which wasn’t too far from the truth. The Bentley swerved a corner, skidding another loop around St. James Park. The car was much too small for all of them of course, but Adam thought it rather inconvenient that the Them couldn’t come along too, so had fixed that problem accordingly.  
  
“One more time,” Crowley said. “Just in case we missed him. Then I’m going straight Down There and having some serious words.”  
  
Anathema had a strange device of witchy origin spread across her and Newt’s laps. Her brow was furrowed, glasses slightly askew. It was hard to cast spells, even a simple incantation of finding, when she was fearing for her life at the same time.

With some effort, the spell was cast. Anathema reached out with her mind, searching for that unique aura that would indicate an angelic power. She clenched her fists, then sighed.  
  
“Nothing,” she said at last. “Nothing at all.”  
  
“Nothing from Shadwell and Tracey either,” said Pepper, brandishing her phone. “Looked all over for him, not a peep. Adam, can’t you just bring him back?”  
  
Adam furrowed his brow. “It’s kind of hard, since I don’t know what I’m looking for. It’s like… trying to win a toy from one of those arcade machines with the pinchy thing. I know he’s _somewhere_ but there’s something weird I can’t work out.” The boy sulked and slunk down into the oversized back seat, grumpy and personally offended that he couldn’t just save the day. “S’giving me a right headache.”  
  
Crowley grimaced. He hadn’t spoken the entire time and his hands were clenched on the steering wheel, barely watching the road. He glared out at London as though it might feel threatened enough to make Aziraphale appear. Anathema and Newt exchanged worried looks. They knew there was _something_ between the angel and the demon, and that Aziraphale usually kept Crowley’s darker nature (to the extent that such a thing existed, which wasn't really all that much if everyone was being honest with themselves) in check. If something were to happen to him though… The young couple shook their heads and grimaced.  
  
“That’s it,” Crowley said, bringing the car to a halt. “I’m taking this all the way down, or all the way up, or whatever way it needs to go.” He jammed a button the radio and the car screeched with static. “Hastur!” he yelled. “Hastur pick up, bless it!”  
  
The radio screeched some more, segueing into a scratchy and irritable voice. “What do you want this time, Crowley? I thought we agreed to leave each other alone from now on. You’ve got your postponed Apocalypse and I’ve got too much blessed paperwork.”  
  
“Paperwork, sure, don’t play dumb with me. Where is he?” snapped Crowley.  
  
“What you on about?”  
  
“Aziraphale! What have you done with him?”  
  
There was a pause, punctuated only by Crowley’s heavy breathing. Then, Hastur started to laugh.  
  
“You’ve _lost_ him? You’ve only had him ten minutes!” Hastur was wheezing, crackly through the radio’s static. “I’ve no idea where he is, I don’t deal with angels. All that good smell, gives me right trouble with my sinuses.”  
  
There was something about his tone that gave Crowley pause. That, and the fact that Hell still possessed that trick where they could beam information directly into his mind. Crowley blinked, his brain processing the new information that had been rather hastily dumped there, and suddenly it was clear. Hastur and all the other patrons of Hell didn’t know where Aziraphale was. They were, however, incredibly amused that Crowley had misplaced him.  
  
“All right,” muttered Crowley. “If I find out you’ve tricked me, I’ll be back and you won’t like me when I’m angry, Hastur. You remember 1958.”  
  
Hastur’s shudder was practically tangible through the radio. “Too right I do.” [5]

([5] That year had started on a Wednesday, and only gone downhill from there.)

  
  
Without so much as a goodbye, he signed off.  
  
“Well?” asked Them, Anathema and Newt all at once.  
  
Crowley rested his head against the steering wheel and heaved a long sigh. He removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose and fought a gasping breath. “They don’t have him. Beamed the truth directly into my brain. Not a blessed clue.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Mr Crowley,” piped up Wensleydale from the back. “I suppose the good news is there’s one place we’ve not tried yet.”  
  
“You mean--?” asked Brian.  
  
All eyes in the car turned skywards.

  
  
\--

  
The collective plants of Crowley’s apartment had come up with a few ideas. Some were better than others, and they were all trying their best, but there was currently a very focused effort on helping Aziraphale to regain his human form.  
  
_I just don’t change my corporation, much,_ admitted Aziraphale. _Crowley always makes it look so easy, turning into a serpent; I assumed I would just be able to do it if I tried._  
  
A very helpful African Violet had once been in the eyeline of a physics textbook Crowley was reading._ It’s all about atoms,_ it nodded. _You’ve got to rearrange them the right way._  
  
_Easier said than done,_ Aziraphale sent back. He was trying though, rather valiantly. Whenever he felt like giving up, he thought about Crowley. Sad, frustrated, confused Crowley, wondering why Aziraphale had completely vanished without a trace. Not to mention all the paperwork that might be involved if he had to request a new body from scratch. He reached out for full awareness of his corporation, every molecule vibrating together. He thought about his human-shaped form, the weight of his hands, the texture of his clothes….  
  
_Ah!!_ Something! Aziraphale swiveled in his pot, shifting flowers out of the way to see…  
  
Ah. He had successfully twisted some of his stems into the shape of a bowtie.  
  
Well, it was progress, he supposed.  
  
There was a soft, rustling whisper of leaves through the flat, which, if Aziraphale didn’t know any better, might be considered a sarcastic kind of applause.

  
\--

  
“Can’t you just do the radio thing again?” asked Pepper, as they pulled up to the kerb outside of Crowley’s flat. Everyone scrambled out in a grateful heap and the car sunk back to its normal size – not that anyone would have noticed the change, since people generally didn’t bother to pay attention to that sort of weirdness.  
  
“Nah,” said Crowley. “Can only do that with my lot. Loads more hoops for a demon to get Up There.”  
  
He clicked his fingers and the car locked itself. The demon, the witch, the witchfinder, the children and the dog filed into the lobby and took the elevator up to Crowley’s flat. A receptionist blinked at them slowly, rubbed his eyes and returned to his magazine.  
  
Aziraphale was carefully contemplating the exact structure of a human hand when the door burst open.  
  
It was Crowley and the others. Crowley’s face was unreadable, a perfect storm of rage, anxiety and despair. His hands, normally stuffed casually into his pockets, kept making nervous fluttering gestures. The others crowded into the flat, admiring the furnishings and plants.  
  
“That can’t be the actual Mona Lisa, can it?” Aziraphale heard Wensleydale whisper.  
  
“Nah,” said Brian, “Can’t be. Surely not. Cor, look at this statue!”  
  
The flat felt very chaotic all of a sudden. The plants, unused to so much company, cowered self-consciously against the walls.  
  
“So how do you do it?” Adam said. “How do you get in touch with them?”  
  
Crowley looked up from where he’d been rummaging through his desk drawers. It was as though he’d forgotten the existent of Anathema, Newt and the Them up until that moment.  
  
“It won’t be pretty,” he said. “Look, you really shouldn’t all be here. Angels involved, angry angels since the whole End of the World thing, not agreeable at the best times and all that. If anyone accidentally gets smited, it’s not going to be on me. Deflecting all blame on that one.” He held up his hands, palms out. “Tell you what. Hang out in the lobby and if I need anything, I’ll give you a call.”  
  
Anathema ushered the children out of the door.  
  
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asked Newt. “Leaving you to face a load of angels alone?”  
  
Crowley’s face was set. “It’s better this way. If something’s happened to Aziraphale…” His face _crumpled_ in a way Newt wouldn’t have thought possible for a demon. “I don’t—“ said Crowley, and couldn’t finish. He turned pointedly away from Newt and rested his hands on the windowsill, staring out at the London traffic.  
  
Newton took the hint and, with one final pained glance at Crowley, left.  
  
The door clicked closed for a final time and Crowley was back where he had begun the day, alone in his flat.  
  
Leaning over the windowsill, he cast Aziraphale in shadow. Aziraphale was quite warmed up by this point and energetic enough to wave his leaves and flowers excitedly. _Notice me!_ He gestured. _There’s no need for all this charging valiantly into Heaven nonsense!_  
  
Crowley didn’t notice. He had closed his eyes in thought, long fingers drumming against the windowsill.  
  
“Angel, I promise you, wherever you are, whatever’s happened to you, I’ll find you.” His voice was barely a whisper but there was not a plant in the flat who didn’t hear it. Except perhaps the aloe in the bathroom, which had opted out of the whole ‘listening thing’ when Crowley began to give the human tradition of singing in the shower a try.  
  
_See_, Aziraphale announced triumphantly to the room at large. _He’s really not that bad at all._

It was an absent-minded fluke of luck that made Crowley pick up the plant. He wrapped his hands around Aziraphale, breathing in the scent of begonias and damp earth and, perhaps tucked quietly at the back of these scents, the musty smell of an old bookshop. More to occupy his hands rather than anything else, he held Aziraphale in one hand while he reached for a stick of chalk in his desk draw. Crouching to the floor, he absently ran fingers through Aziraphale’s leaves with his left hand, and drew out a circle on the floor with his right.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, up there,” Crowley muttered as he worked. His pupils were black slits in golden fire, the slight rasp of a hiss coming unbidden into his voice. “Think you can get anything you want, jusssst _hate_ being outssssmarted you angelic bastardsss. Care more about ticking things off a lissst than doing anything actually meaningful.” He continued in this fashion, rambling about all of the bureaucratic incompetence of Heaven and Hell.  
  
The plants looked on, amused. Seeing Crowley so angry at everything and anything other than themselves was incredibly refreshing. It had been quite a good day for them, all things considered.  
  
“But I swear, if you’ve done anything to Aziraphale, I’ll do whatever it takes to show you I am not messing around. I’ll make a million Manchesters. Turn every London subway sign into a hell sigil. I’ll -- I'll--- I'll make every pot of tea in a hundred miles of here go stone cold.”  
  
Aziraphale had been listening to this rant without really registering what was happening. Then he looked at the floor as Crowley stepped back, dusting chalk from his hand and, were Aziraphale able to gasp in that moment, he would have.  
  
_My dear, you can’t!_ he screamed with every fibre of his being. A direct line to Heaven would completely destroy Crowley if he stepped into the circle. Aziraphale recalled what the same thing had done to him with a shudder. Definitely not good, worse for Crowley. He could summon the angels here, and maybe that was the more realistic plan, but it would only invite very big trouble.  
  
There was only one thing to do.  
  
Aziraphale willed a quick prayer skywards to God Herself. He concentrated with every ounce of power he possessed and forced himself to roll out of Crowley’s arm.  
  
He fell to the floor and the pot shattered.  
  
Soil spilled over the chalk circle. Crowley jumped back in astonishment.  
  
Aziraphale was in the zone, now (as Crowley would say). After all, he thought, casting a glance around at the other plants in the room who shivered in awe, he’d had some excellent training.  
  
Aziraphale concentrated, hoping against hope that this would work.  
  
In the blink of an eye, the red begonias turned tartan.  
  
There was silence in the flat. Crowley stared, jaw gaping slightly, at the now-tartan begionas in a clump of soil. The anxiety and anger in his face melted away, leaving sheer astonishment.  
  
“How did-“ he said.  
  
For the third time that day – and hopefully the last because he was getting pretty tired out, to be honest – Aziraphale stretched and strained and raised one leaf upward, pointing.  
  
Crowley looked up at the ceiling.  
  
He had once invested in some rather nice hanging baskets. Trailing flowers, vines, nice long leaves and all that.  
  
While some plants had been busy coaching Aziraphale on How To Unfuck Your Corporation, the others had been hard at work on another little project.  
  
Leaves and vines spread out across the ceiling.  
  
CHANGED INTO PLANT, they spelled out. HELP?  
  
It took Crowley some time to form coherent words. His gaze kept flickering from the begonias, to the tartan-ness of the begonias, to the ceiling and back again. He opened his mouth, closed it. Licked his suddenly dry lips.  
  
Then he spoke. His words were slow and very, very quiet.  
  
“Aziraphale,” said Crowley. “What the fuck?”  
  
A begonia leaf waved sheepishly in reply.

  
  
\--

  
“For the love of Somebody,” said Crowley, later, when he had managed to calm down, “Never, I mean literally, never, ever do something like that again.”  
  
“It’s not like I _meant_ to do it,” Aziraphale pointed out. He kept stretching out his limbs, clasping and unclasping his hands, delighting in his blissfully restored corporation. It had taken Crowley all of two seconds to miracle him back to normal and Aziraphale felt a little bit put out by how easy he’d made it seem.  
  
They stood in Crowley’s flat, still, the demon reeling in the aftermath of Aziraphale’s explanation. He was too startled to be angry, just shell-shocked (“by the sheer and utter stupidity of what I have just witnessed” he would later insist. He would then disappear to his selfdom-used bathroom and cry a few small tears of intense relief under the confused stare of the aloe) and it had taken some time for him to return to what Aziraphale called 'a reasonable state'.  
  
They stood there. Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands in his own.  
  
“You know what they say, my dear. All’s well that ends well.” He grinned, delighting in the action. He would never take something as simple as Having A Face for granted, ever again.  
  
Crowley shook his head. “I cannot believe you. I just can’t.”  
  
But he couldn’t help smiling, just a little.  
  
“Thanks for the rescue,” Aziraphale continued. “Very glad to be back to normal, I’ll tell you that much. And those plants of yours are darlings. They deserve better treatment. Don’t you?” he called to the room. There was silence, but maybe the slightest air of something that might be interpreted as A Call for Rights and Demands To Be Met and _“Vive la revolution!”_  
  
Crowley just sighed, leaned in and kissed him.

  
  
\--

It wasn’t until much, much later that he remembered Anathema, Newt and the Them waiting in the lobby. [6]

([6] For their part, they _had_ returned to investigate and, being met with a number of Curious Sounds from behind Crowley's closed door, decided to make their respective ways home with no further discussion. 'There are some things there's no need to be curious about,' Anathema had promised Them, 'or at least, not at your age'.)

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me about Good Omens over on tumblr! ♥ [@souljellied](https://souljellied.tumblr.com)


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